


A Roadtrip, a Veteran, and a Flower

by Amalthea_Oberon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 23:09:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7911187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amalthea_Oberon/pseuds/Amalthea_Oberon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry disappears from the Wizarding World for a little while after the fall of Voldemort - he's gone traveling. He considered backpacking Europe, but then he realized he’d had enough of camping for at least twenty years, so he teaches himself to drive and then he’s off on a roadtrip in a beat-up car that’s still fast as anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Roadtrip, a Veteran, and a Flower

**Author's Note:**

> Written and posted to my Tumblr account:  
> https://amalthea-oberon.tumblr.com/post/149430144233/averypottermormon-maedhrys-harry-disappears

September 1, 1998. King’s Cross was filled with people as it was every year. Though this time a more peculiar crowd pushed its way through the platforms, through a wall, and into the train on the other side.

Harry James Potter stood in the shadows watching the red engine blow puffs of white smoke into the air. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d come. He wasn’t going back to Hogwarts. Hermione had tried to convince him.

“It will be good for you. Think of all the things we can catch up on. The spells we can _really_ learn!”

“We _have_ learned them. We’ve learned them better than anyone.”

“We learned them hastily on the run.”

“But we learned them.”

He was tired of living in the shadows of others, filling molds that were made long before he could remember after he has lost those who had sacrificed everything to save him.

Ron had also refused to go and Hermione had elected to take accelerate summer courses offered to those students who had missed far too much while hiding, fulfilling secret missions, or on the run. Ginny had also attended - Hogwarts held too many bad memories for her - and she had worked extra hard to complete two school years in three short months.

There was no one left for him to send off. And still he had come. He supposed it was a send off to the person he used to be. The person who had been swallowed up in the politics of a broken government, the goals of a madman, and a scheming, selfish leader. A boy who, seven years ago, had met a small redhead and shared a trolley full of sweets. A boy who had made an enemy, encouraged an unlikely lionheart, and befriended a know-it-all who had saved his skin more times than he cared to remember.

A boy who ultimately died.

Harry looked around one last time. The once glamorous scene was now full of worries he’d rather forget.So with a flick of his wrist, he left. At the counter of the Heathrow Airport he bought a ticket to New York. Boarding the plane with nothing but his wand, his passport, a journal, an international credit card, and a ballpoint pen, the hero of the wizarding world slipped quietly into the muggle world just as the first years were being sorted in the countryside far below.

Going through customs was unnerving. At every corner a government goon overlooked the throng of people. Much to his relief, when his fingerprints were scanned and his passport examined, the TSA employee waved him through with hardly a word. Leaving the airport on a bus, Harry trekked to Time Square.

The noise, the buildings, the lights, and the feel reminded him of London - but bigger, louder, drier, and definitely brighter. And yet, surrounded as he was, Harry felt alone. No one talked to him in reverent awe. No intense eyes observed him. No groups of witches and wizards gossiped excitedly behind their hands. He was, dare he hope, seemingly _normal_.

Just another bloke on a busy street.

It took some considerable time finding a used car lot, and even more time bartering the price until it was somewhat reasonable, if still a bit overpriced. He had gotten a driver’s license in London and, with a few clothes in a worn bag from a thrift store and the items he’d brought from home, Harry set off.

A plan? Well, he didn’t have one. So he just drove. First he went west, driving until he was surrounded with nothing but an impressive amount of corn stretching to each and every horizon. So he headed back east.

He thought about the war. He thought about the life he’d lived and lost. He thought about the jobs Dumbledore had given him, the fight for his life, the friends who had given theirs in his defense. He was so entranced he almost drove off the road, nearly bowling over a hitchhiker in the process.

Maybe it was fate.Harry sat, fists clutching the wheel, heart racing, mind suddenly blank, gazing wide-eyed out the window.

Five minutes.

A knock on the window.

A muffled question.

Rolling down the window, Harry peered at the almost-victim. “Sorry?”

“Now that you’ve almost ran me over, you owe me a ride, don’t you think?”

Harry wordless gestured and unlocked the car. And off they went.30 minutes of driving and silence was broken by an exasperated, “We’re going the wrong way.”

A hasty (illegal) U-turn righted the wrong.

“I’m Riley, by the way.”

“Harry.”

“You’re British!”

A nod.

“And not that talkative. I hope you don’t mind if I am.” And so she was. Riley talked about her family, where she was from, where she had been, what she had seen. She talked about where she was going and what she was excited about. She talked about her days, the shows she liked, the people she hated. But she never discussed the _why’s_.

“Do you miss your family?”

Silence.

“Do you hate your family?”

More silence.

“Don’t take your family for granted, regardless if you love or hate them.”

“They disowned me.”

Shock. Silence. Embarrassment. “Why?”

“Because I decided I’m not who I was born as.” A silent question. A silent response.

“We can never truly fulfill other’s expectations of us. And you’ll kill yourself trying.”

More silence.

“I suppose I’m traveling to find myself.”

Silence. Music. Directions.

Riley moved on. But in her place she left a card - a blog detailing her travel - and a note: _If I left you one of these, you made a difference in my life._

That night he looked up the blog and found her entry - an entry about a British man with old eyes, a sad face, and words of kindness. A man who had let her be herself and given her the most profound advice she had ever heard: to only fulfill your own expectations and leave the others behind. A smile played on Harry’s lips. He had made a mark without violence, magic, or dangerous missions.

Harry drove on west. He came across a man, a group of students, a son and his mother. He listened to their stories, their histories, their purposes. They shared advice with each other. They laughed and sang songs.

More and more, Harry was learning what it was like to be just another face in the crowd. At first, Harry’s hand had never been too far from his wand. As time went on, however, the eleven inch holly lay nearly forgotten.

Six months went by and the wizarding world had yet to fall apart. Giving rides to strangers was starting to lose its appeal and Harry once again traveled alone for a while. He found a wizarding pocket and quietly let Ginny, Ron, and Hermione know he was still alive.

If this is what you could call living. He still felt broken. Empty. Dead.

It’s true he had forgotten about his troubles for a time. That, however, only lasted for so long. Something ignored never truly goes away, but comes back with a vengeance.

And so, Harry continued to drive, taking the less traveled road, finding solace in his solitude. The open sky and empty road comforted him and provided the needed time to think about who he was - who he had been, who he had become, and who he wanted to be.

When he needed a break from his own thoughts and endlessly monologuing mind he would spend a day or two giving rides and advice only to find himself once again with no distractions but the often static radio. On one of his lonely stretches, on the open road near the Appalachian Mountains, Harry found himself staring at the road without a direction to go.

He pulled over to the side of the road, tired from the day’s driving. Resting his head on the steering wheel, he simply sat, blanking his mind and listening to the passing cars.

A tap on the window.

Instinctively, Harry grabbed his wand, pointing it at the window.

A surprised face, full of wrinkles and experience set with wise, kind eyes peered through the passenger window.

The old man raised his hands as if at gunpoint. “No need to be alarmed, young man. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” The calm demeanor and voice of the silver haired man disarmed Harry who slowly lowered his wand.

“I’m sorry. I-”

“No need to apologize.” An understanding smile, kind eyes, and a soft face. “I know a bit about handling surprises myself.” The man hesitated, a question in his eye. After a quiet moment, the man continued, “Would you mind giving me a ride? I’ll pay for your dinner at the best town over.”

Harry wordlessly gestured his consent and started the engine. The car was silent for the first five minutes, though not uncomfortably so.

“That accent - where abouts are you from?”

It was a question Harry was used to enough by now. The first time had put him on edge, but it had now become a constant in the months of picking up those on the road - it was with genuine curiosity and the desire to connect to another traveler. “London.”

“You’re a far way from home.”

“I needed some distance. Some perspective.” Something about the man - maybe it was the smile, maybe it was the understanding eyes - made Harry trust the man. Made him open up. “It’s been 8 months. 8 months since the war. Since I lost my life, was revived, and ended it. If I thought trekking around the countryside, camping in all kinds of weather, and being on the run was hard…well…”

“Real life seems harder?” The man offered. Harry simply dove on. The man must had understood. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

Silence. One full of anger, frustration, pity, and a kind of love that can only come from empathy and camaraderie.

The sun set and the road continued. The man fell asleep and Harry drove on. A southern country road with meadows and rolling hills. A cloudless sky. Endless stars. A crescent moon.

Harry pulled over, shutting off the headlights and leaving the engine ruining. He quietly walked to the top of the nearest hill. Laying in the grass, he thought of the last year and a half - the Horcruxes, the Stone, the friends and family he had lost. He thought of Ginny - her smile, laugh, competitive nature. He thought of her moving on, loving someone else. Giving up on him. The stars blurred as tears streamed silently down his face.

Footsteps sounded. “What are you doing out here, son? The sky doesn’t hold any answers for you, though tonight it’s beautiful.”

Harry struggled to gain control of his voice. The man once again understood, found a spot, and sat, quietly and patiently contemplating the sky.

“I never imagined I would survive. I had one goal, and living wasn’t one of them. I assumed I’d die having fought a good fight, loving my best friend’s sister. Dying with my friends behind me, my purpose steadying my feet, and facing the enemy. But I never dared imagine getting out, surrounded as I was.”

“Were you undercover? A POW?”

“Both, and on the run. Since the day I was born my life has been set for me. And the last year of the war brought it all together with more force and occurrences than I could possibly recount.

“But more than that, I was lost. I was on a year long mission that more often than not felt utterly futile. I completed the task, finished the mission, but something died in me as well.”

The man met this new information with a kind of silence that comes from having lived through the same situation.

“You’re a vet, aren’t you.”

“World War II, the Korean War, and Vietnam. I came back feeling much like you, having lost myself and my purpose.”

“Did you ever get it back?”

“With time.”

The two stared at the stars. The horizon lightened, signaling the coming sunrise. Wordlessly the two stood and returned to the car, continuing on in silence. In the next town, Harry rented a room and the two slept until dinner, then traveled on.

They kept driving, more for companionship than for travel or a means to an end. They came to a small farming town in the Midwestern United States. Surrounded by corn and cows, going 70 in a 55 zone, Harry turned of the radio.

“The dead thing. I think it’s me. I might have killed the enemy, but I killed myself in the process.” The sun was setting, almost blinding Harry has he drove westward, but he continued at his reckless pace.

The speed limit changed to 35 and Harry slowed to 50, following the road to open farmland. Corn, alfalfa, barley, and wheat flew by, interspersed with empty plots of churned dirt.

“No.” Harry started, jerking the wheel. He hadn’t expected the vet to answer. “I’m going to tell you something someone much wiser than I once told me: No. You lived, and son, you’re going to keep on living. You’ll marry that girl - if you love her - and have a wonderful life. The war is over. It’s done. You got out. Now it’s time to get it out of you. For your friends, your family, your girl. But really, and most importantly, for you. Do it so you can live and laugh and love again as if the war never happened. Because that’s what we came home for.”

Tears streaming down his face, Harry slammed on the brakes and pulled over, almost running into a telephone pole. Opening the door, he stood on the side of the road, staring at the churned dirt.

And Harry _smiled_. Then chuckled. He collapsed on the ground with laughter, sitting cross-legged in the deep brown earth. He threw back his head and released pure joy to the sky. He felt like Spring again. Where each tear fell sprouted a daisy. He sat laughing and crying until he was surrounded by wildflowers. Birds flew down, sitting on his shoulders and knees, and joined in with their songs.

Harry’s core _lived_ again - peaceful, pure, fun magic flowed to the tips of his fingers and toes, tingling the back of his neck and ruffling his messy, now shoulder-length hair.

And though he knew he wouldn’t feel this pure at all times, he knew one thing:

He was the Boy Who _Lived._

He was the Boy Who _Died_.

And he was the Boy Who Lived _Again_.

The Boy Who Lived _After the War_.

At the next town, the man parted ways with Harry. The two shared a connection built only through sympathy, empathy, and companionship. And as the man walked away, Harry understood for the first time that the vet had been in his car not to get from Point A to Point B, but because he saw a young man who had died and wanted him to live.

The man had seen himself in Harry and had given up weeks of his life to save him.

Harry bowed to the figure walking down the street, showing more respect and gratitude for this stranger than any other person he had previously known. The two had never shared their names or any details about their lives, but they had shared a singular experience - Harry had decided to _live_ again.

He went home. He laughed, he lived, he loved. He proposed, got married, and became a father.

And five years to the day of laughter and tears and flowers in a small farming town across the Atlantic, Harry got a knock on the door. A young woman stood on his step, a book covered in small white daisies hugged to her chest, and she told a story.

A story about a man who had found the Boy Who Lived far from home, broken, lost, and confused. The savior of the wizarding world still terrified of life and strangers and people. And how that man had decided to save him, because that boy had already saved so many and no one had bothered to return the favor.

How that boy lived and died and lived again.

She placed the book in his hands and said that the blossoms were born from one of the flowers which had sprouted from Harry’s bittersweet tears. How her grandfather had taken it home and pressed it into a book - a book on war - and how every page was now interlaced with leaves, stems, buds, and life.

She opened up the section on homecoming and victory and joy. And there was _that_ flower and a note - _the blossom that grew from the tears of the Boy Who Lived_.

Harry stared at the page through tears. Tears of joy, gratitude, and wonder. Looking up at the girl, he asked one question: “He’s gone on, hasn’t he?”

She nodded and broke down.

Harry placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve been there, you know. I’ve been to the other side. He lived a good life. He’s happy. And he’ll wait as long as it takes. He’ll meet you with the same love you’ve shown him.”

The girl hugged Harry. “Keep the book. He wanted you to have it.”

“What was his name?”

She smiled softly and shook her head. “He said he wants to tell you that himself.” And years later, surrounded by his family and friends, Harry once again returned to King’s Cross Station to be met by Lily, James, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Fred, and Hagrid. In the background stood a young man Harry had never met. Walking over, the man held out his hand. “Welcome home, Harry.”

Harry smiled and shook his hand. “The name’s Will.” As Will let go, Harry looked at his palm to find a white daisy glowing brightly. Looking up, Will smiled. “I’m glad you lived.”

The Boy Who Lived Again threw his arms around the vet, his heart full. “Thank you.”


End file.
